


Cream Filling

by PinkToby



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Crack, Food Kink, Humor, Let's get weird, M/M, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:48:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3829432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkToby/pseuds/PinkToby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal has an affair and Will finds out about it in the best/worst way.</p>
<p>(A belated birthday gift for imaginehanniballecter)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (belated!) birthday to my lovely wife, Izzy (imaginehanniballecter)-- I wish you much happiness and many toaster on this joyous occasion.

If someone were to ask Hannibal Lecter to describe his ideal lover, he would respond with something along these lines:

“Warm.  Welcoming.  Sweet, but not overly so.  Something to be savored; an indulgence, if you will.  Quiet while I cook, preferring to listen instead of speak.”  With a sparkle in his eye and a smirk on his lips, his voice would drop an octave when he says, “Able to look positively _delicious_ on my kitchen counter.”

“Oh, Doctor Lecter!” A woman would say, placing a good-natured hand on his shoulder, “You naughty thing!” 

She’ll be thinking of him the next time she settles into another round of vaguely disappointing sex with her aging husband, pretending her cool cotton sheets are stainless steel behind her back and the man sweating between her legs has the same toned shoulders she felt underneath a plaid wool dinner jacket once upon a time.

“I value honesty over propriety any day, and besides,” He would place a hand on the small of her back—a friendly gesture to everyone _but_ the woman—and lean in to speak lowly into her ear, “you never know who might be listening.”

* * *

 

 

 

It’s a calm April evening when Hannibal decides to make his favorite dessert—the sun is hanging low in the purple-pink sky as he takes out his favorite baking pan and preheats his oven to a delightfully smoldering 475 degrees Fahrenheit. 

He glides over to the refrigerator with a sense of security that could only be achieved by a truly content man, and when he uncovers a stainless steel bowl of custard, notes of vanilla settling happily in his nose while notes of Vivaldi float easily into his ears. 

If he happens to hum along to the tune as he works, cracking eggs and stirring a saucepan full of batter, well, that’s his business.

He smiles when he pipes out the batter onto the parchment-covered baking sheet—it has to be just shy of four fingers wide, a little over a foot long, and dense enough to be sure the pastry doesn’t tear when it’s done.  He remembers the weekend he perfected the recipe with a sour kind of thoughtfulness, lips pursed into a tight, lemon-eating pucker.  Two days of experimentation, two days of failure, and two days of a crushed ego—he doesn’t like to revisit that particular memory often, for obvious reasons.

Of course, it’s no matter now—he has a masterpiece in the oven, a bottle of his favorite Riesling chilled and ready to be consumed, and an entire evening without any obligations aside from those inside his kitchen.

Life, he thinks to himself, is _particularly_ good.

* * *

 

 

Will Graham rests his forehead against the steering wheel with a deep sigh—it’s 9:47 PM on a Friday night, and he’s parked (rather crookedly) in Doctor Lecter’s driveway.  He tells himself that he should turn his car on and drive back home, that he doesn’t exactly _need_ to be interrupting his friend’s evening just because he’s feeling a little lonely—he should drive home, have a beer, and let the dogs pile on top of him until the throb of solitude is soothed to a dull ache beneath his collarbone. 

But that would be the _sensible_ thing to do.

And one thing Will Graham does not often do is _make sense_.

So, with a huff, he snatches his keys from the ignition and climbs out of his car, nearly thwacking his head on the door as he stumbles onto the pavement.  _Great_.  At least he doesn’t manage to fall flat on his face when he takes ten fast-paced strides towards Hannibal’s front step, nor does he break his hand when he knocks twice on the big wooden door—a victory, really, considering how hard his knuckles collide with the heavy oak. 

Will grumbles when he is not immediately invited inside, his foot tapping out the seconds it takes for Hannibal to _get his shit together_ and _answer the goddamn door._ His left hand fiddles with the house key in his coat pocket—the one Hannibal had given him last week with a placid smile, saying it was ‘for emergencies and social calls alike.’ 

Yeah, okay.

Whatever _that_ means.

Will sighs.  He can see that the lights in the kitchen are on, which means he _must_ be making something very classy and unpronounceable.   He considers the key again.  Maybe Hannibal is waiting for him to use it on his own?  Perhaps it’s one of those ‘exercises in trust,’ or whatever? 

There’s only one way to find out.

The door unlocks with a fluid effortlessness, and barely creaks when it swings open wide to expose the cavernous innards of the foyer.  Before he can consider what a terrible idea it is to essentially break into his friend-therapist’s home, Will trudges inside and closes the door behind him with a dull _thud_. 

It’s strange, barging in like this, but he’s sure Hannibal won’t mind—in fact, he’ll probably find it amusing, give him one of those weird half-smiles where his face barely moves as he hands Will a glass of wine with a snide comment about his choice in aftershave. 

How domestic.

He shrugs off his jacket with a roll of his shoulders and leaves it hanging on the hook, something he doesn’t normally do on a social call, in the hope that Hannibal will pick up on the hint that Will intends to stay for a while.  Hannibal would appreciate the subtlety, seeing as though Will hasn’t been subtle a day in his life. 

He’s tucking his keys into his coat pocket—better there than in his jeans pockets, digging into his thigh and creating a general air of impatience—when he hears it.  A fleshy slap against metal, followed by a throaty groan echoes into the entryway, and Will springs into action.  

It feels like sacrilege to be running through Hannibal’s house, his footfalls loud and echoing on the immaculately clean floors as he bounds down the hall as fast as he can.

He’s nearly breathless by the time he bursts through the doorway—either a testament to fear or being out of shape—to find Hannibal not only standing upright, but looking well.

“Okay,” he mumbles to himself, scrubbing a hand down his face in relief, “good, this is good…”

Of course, like all things in Will Graham’s life, his comfort is short-lived. 

 “Oh my God, are you—?”

* * *

 

 

Normally, Hannibal would be thrilled to see Will Graham bounding into his kitchen looking sweaty, disheveled, and most importantly, in need of guidance.  Even through the sugary aroma of fresh-baked pastry, he can smell the uncomfortable musk that emanates from Will’s pores.  His eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape, and (to Hannibal’s immense pleasure), there is a flush creeping up his neck.

Hannibal is not a man who believes in luck, but even he must thank the Fates for such a unique opportunity to study his deliciously nervous friend.  He momentarily considers asking Will to leave his kitchen so he might collect himself, but that would be so horribly _mundane_ and _expected._   How boring. 

So, in lieu of propriety, Hannibal pretends that he is _not_ currently (for lack of a better term) balls-deep in an éclair and hanging onto the fraying edges of a spectacular orgasm.

“Ah, Will,” Hannibal says, cordial as ever even in his less-than-polished state, “I must say, this is an unexpected surprise.” 

“I…” Will scrubs a hand down his face, desperately trying not to let his gaze fall anywhere _near_ Hannibal’s person. 

“May I offer you something to drink?  I recently opened a lovely Reisling that I think you’ll enjoy…  Allow me to go-“

“ _No, don’t_ —uh, don’t move, don’t-“ Will heaves a shaky sigh, “Is there any chance—any chance _at all_ —that I’m hallucinating right now?”

“Given the normal size of your pupils and your ability to hold a conversation,” Hannibal quirks a small smile, “I would say it’s highly unlikely.”

“Then I’m not imagining… _this_?”

“It depends on what _this_ is,” Hannibal places his hands on the countertop, mindful of the flour that still coats the stainless steel, “Tell me, Will, what do you see?”

“What—What do I _see_?”  Will takes a moment, seemingly to collect his thoughts, “I _see_ my psychiatrist—my _half-naked_ psychiatrist—with his, with his _dick_ in a fucking _cake_!”

“You are mistaken, Will.  This is not a cake; it’s an éclair.”

“Christ,” Will smacked his forehead, “Your penis is in _a dessert_ and _I’m here_.”

“Does that bother you, Will?”

“Does it bother— _Yes, it bothers me!_ ”  Will makes the mistake of looking in Hannibal’s direction, only to catch a glimpse of naked hip.  He quickly looks away, but not without catching Hannibal’s eye. 

“And yet, here you are, interacting with me even though I am in a rather compromising position.  Why is that?”

Will looks dumbfounded.  “I…uh, I didn’t…didn’t know I was allowed leave?”

“Your answer lacks confidence.”

“Yeah, well, yourass lacks pants,” Will huffs, “But I assume you’re trying to make a point, so go ahead and make it.”

“I believe that, on an unconscious level,” Hannibal takes a moment, relishing the way he plans to twist the proverbial knife even deeper, “you are sexually attracted to me.”

“You think I’m _what?!?”_

“It would hardly be impossible,” Hannibal smirks “After all, we’re two single—and might I be so bold as to say attractive?—men who share a profound emotional bond.  Who’s to say it couldn’t turn romantic?”

“Oh my God, Hannibal, can we _please_ not talk about this right now?  I mean—shit, you’re still in that pastry, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that…uncomfortable?”

“Not overly,” Hannibal says, “although I’d hardly call it pleasant.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.”  Will sighs, “Alright, um, why don’t I go into the living room, maybe abuse a bottle of your scotch a little bit, and you can join me after you, uh, _collect_ yourself?”

“Should I prepare myself for a lecture, Will?” 

“Maybe.”  Will finally— _finally_ —looks him in the eye, and it warms a sizable space in Hannibal’s chest.  Of course, Will’s steely gaze dampens the mood a smidge, but at this point, Hannibal will take what he can get. “And don’t even _think_ about showing up without pants.”

“I’ll do my best,” Hannibal replies with a good-natured bob of his head, “Please make yourself comfortable in my absence.  I’ll be along shortly.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about why someone would stick their dick in a pastry in the first place.

Will is finishing up his third helping of scotch by the time Hannibal emerges from the kitchen, looking very much unlike a man who just had intimate relations with a cream-filled pastry.  Not a trace of four remains clinging to his skin, and the hair that had fallen from its careful style is now slicked back to its original pristine form. 

“I apologize for the delay,” Hannibal offers, taking a seat in the armchair next to Will, “I see you’ve managed to keep yourself busy?”

“Busy enough,” Will grumbles, “Trying to figure out what to say to you when you got back.  Didn’t come up with anything good.  Turns out I’m just as bad a therapist as I am a patient.”

“When it comes to patients, I’ve had far worse ones than you, Will.” Hannibal pauses.  “I could say the same about my friends.”

“Can’t imagine Jack would’ve handled that scene in the kitchen very well.”

“No, I imagine not.”

Hannibal pours Will another drink, and Will nods his thanks.  He probably shouldn’t have another, especially if he’s driving home tonight, but Hannibal Lecter isn’t exactly someone you say ‘no’ to, especially when it comes to consumables. 

“I must admit,” Hannibal says, “you are handling this situation quite well.  Most people would not be so accepting of my proclivities.”

“My line of work deals exclusively in unusual proclivities.  I’d take ‘psychiatrist sodomizing dessert’ over fresh crime scene any day.”

Hannibal stands and makes his way over to the liquor cabinet to procure a crystal tumbler for himself.  It would be entirely unseemly to have company drink alone.    

“When you first walked into my kitchen, you asked me if you were hallucinating,” Hannibal pours himself a measure of scotch and crosses his legs, as if this is just another therapy session, “Why is that?” 

“Seemed like the only logical response at the time.  I mean, I saw _American Pie_ , but I didn’t think that kind of thing actually happened in real life, and especially not with someone like you.”

“You don’t see me as a sexual being?”

“I don’t see you as the type of guy who gets off on fucking an éclair,” Will is about to take another sip of scotch, but pauses, “Sorry, uh, that was a little uncouth, even for me.”

“Although it lacks tact, I appreciate your honesty.” 

“I guess I’m just…  Why didn’t you cover yourself or something ?  I mean, isn’t that what convention dictates?”

“I briefly considered it.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t.  Why not?”

“I believe you already know the answer to that, dear Will.”

“You’re deflecting.  That, in and of itself, is an answer.”

Hannibal looks pleased.

“And also not much of an answer at all.”

“So, go on then,” Will relaxes into his chair a little more, the liquor having loosened his inhibitions, “explain yourself, Doctor Lecter.  I want to hear you say it.”

“You sound like you already know what my intentions were.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” Will shoots him a challenging glance, “I’ll let you know after you tell me.”

“Frustration makes you bold,” Hannibal observes, “What if I were to tell you that I had no ulterior motive?”

“Then you’d be lying.”

“I see the alcohol hasn’t diminished your ability to make deductions.”  Hannibal takes a contemplative sip from his glass, “I certainly didn’t expect you to visit me this evening.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Had I heard you come in the front door, I would have attempted to spare you our mutual embarrassment.  However, you had rather unfortunate timing.”

“Yeah, you must’ve been, uh, pretty into it.”

“Indeed, I was.”

“Well, that’s…good?  I can’t exactly say the same.”

Hannibal nods in concurrence, but instead of righting his posture, his head remains slightly tilted towards the floor.  He reminds Will of a reprimanded dog, and it’s almost endearing.

“I apologize,” Hannibal says, “but I must confess that I chose to sacrifice your comfort in favor of satisfying my own curiosity.”

“You wanted to see how I’d react.”

“Yes.  And as we have previously established, you reacted quite favorably, given the circumstances.”

“Glad to know I gave a good performance.”  There is little bitterness in Will’s voice—due to the alcohol or just a general sense of calm, Hannibal can’t be sure.  “Alright, I’ve gotta know; is this like an éclair-only type of deal, or do you do this with all your desserts?”

“I have experimented with others—cakes mostly, and the occasional trifle—but I have found them ultimately lacking.  The éclair is unique in both shape and capability, and ultimately the most malleable of the pastries I’ve tried.  When baked, it’s sturdy enough to be handled, yet soft enough to conform to my body’s unique topography.”

“Wait, so it actually feels good?”

“I think so,” Hannibal considers his scotch, “It’s reminiscent of anal or vaginal penetration, especially when the dimensions are correct and the cream filling is there to act as a lubricating agent.”

“You have the filling in there too?”

Hannibal smiles good-naturedly.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, I mean,” Will gulps nervously, “Couldn’t you, y’know…get an infection or something?”

“Condoms negate that possibility.”

“Oh, uh,” Will tries to hide his blush by sipping his drink, but he’s ultimately unsuccessful and he knows it, “well, heh, at least you won’t have to worry about any little creampuffs running around.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal smirks, “although I could serve them at my next dinner party.”

“How very Saturn of you, eating your children and all…” Will huffs out a chuckle, small but still pleasant to Hannibal’s ears, “God, can’t we ever just have a normal conversation?”

“It would seem not,” Hannibal replies thoughtfully, “although, is that such a bad thing?”

“Guess not, especially when you break out the booze.”

“It’s almost enough to forget what you saw in the kitchen?”

“Almost,” Will says with a rueful smirk, “but not quite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...there you go? I guess? I know nothing about sticking body parts in desserts, so I hope this seems right. Also, how do you even end something like this? You probably don't, so I just kind of closed it up real quick and...yeah...
> 
> Hope you all had a fun time reading-- I had a hell of a time writing! 
> 
> Hit me up at mean-cannibals.tumblr.com and also go follow the lovely Izzy at imaginehanniballecter.tumblr.com, for whom this piece was written-- you won't regret it! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. I did it. I wrote HannÉclair. 
> 
> Here are a few important notes:  
> \- I am not a baker, so the technical stuff in here might be wrong. Sorry about that.  
> -Hannibal's penis is NOT '...just shy of four fingers wide, a little over a foot long...' I took into consideration the general thrusting motions that would take place, plus the space needed to fit a dick PLUS custard inside the pastry itself. Fuck outta here with that foot-long dick thing. I'm not about that life.  
> -There WILL be another chapter, in which they discuss what happened, but I'm not sure when I'll post it since real life is being a little hectic right now. But, it's coming. (Like Hannibal. Into the dessert. Lol.)
> 
> As always, hit me up at mean-cannibals.tumblr.com if you're feeling sexy & free or whatever.


End file.
